


Careful Not to Lose Your Way (the Tainted Moonlight Remix)

by corvidae9



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: EWE, F/M, M/M, Vampiric Bloodplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-18
Updated: 2011-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29507970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corvidae9/pseuds/corvidae9
Summary: Draco unwisely receives a visitor. But what does he have to lose?
Relationships: Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Kudos: 3





	Careful Not to Lose Your Way (the Tainted Moonlight Remix)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a remix of megyal’s Moonlight Becomes You, featuring idle-rich!Draco/vampire!Harry (with absolutely no sparkling allowed)(brooding with bad hair on the other hand is clearly _de rigeur_ ) and uninspired Draco/Astoria as a plot device.

Draco’s eyes were shut tight as his body strained under that of his bony wife, fingers clutching at his pristine sheets in a reasonable facsimile of either ecstasy or pain. Truth be told whenever he was alone with Astoria it was a little of both. Her pale, creamy skin stretched tight across the finest bone structure that Wizarding aristocracy could provide, with small, firm breasts and flaxen hair; it wasn’t hard to get it up for her and her deliciously filthy debutante mouth. Salazar knew he certainly wasn’t thinking about heirs when she rode him in expert strokes, her delicate, manicured hands braced on his faintly-scarred chest. 

Despite her best efforts, however, he was also never thinking of his tailor-made wife, and she knew it. His mind wandered away to skin as pale but not nearly as flawless and a horrid Muggle tune latched onto the tendril of memory that had strayed too far into days long past. The days leading up to the Dark Lord’s demise had been filled with a sick kind of hope commingled with new fears and old that could only temporarily be allayed by a mouth less experienced but more enthusiastic than that of his wife and a body that had also never minded taking over.

A final memory of hooded green eyes looking up to catch Draco squirming under a sloppy tongue and callused hands pulled his reserve apart, as it always did, and Draco came with a stuttering groan. Astoria leaned forward and rested her weight on her hands, head hung over her husband’s chest as her breathing returned to normal. Often, Draco was vaguely tempted to offer to help her scratch a similar itch; out of obligation or curiosity or perhaps even genuine fondness, but as he patted her shoulder absently, the texture of her skin brought him back to the present, and couldn’t find it in himself to consider it seriously.

She didn’t seem to care, at any rate. Her muscles flexed around him as she lifted herself off of Draco’s lap and he shivered at the sudden movement and cool air across his hypersensitized cock. Astoria slipped into her silk robe and dropped a kiss on his forehead, and stalked off through the door to her adjoining bedroom with nothing more than a whispered wish for a good night. 

Draco had not yet opened his eyes, nor did he care to. Half-heartedly, he wiped at his abdomen with the corner of a luxurious sheet before collapsing into the same deeply troubled sleep that had claimed him every night since... well. Since then.

Since _him_. Bastard.

* * *

_Bastard._

The word hung in his mind as he woke from dark, formless dreams of terror and desire, inextricably twined around one another as two parts of one massive whole. 

_Let me in,_ said the voice in his mind, growing more faint as consciousness fought to take hold, but Draco recognized that voice immediately. His skin was chilled and goosepebbled from having fallen asleep nude and uncovered, and the chill felt like a sinuous caress up the length of his body. He groped for the edge of the blankets just as he groped for the appropriate response to his subconscious. 

_I wish I could._

Consciousness slammed into his body and he sat up with a violent exhale. Draco scrubbed a hand over his face, shaken. A glance around his moonlit bedroom was all it took to confirm that all was well, everything in its right place. And yet--

A thin curtain fluttered in an equally thin late summer breeze, trailing out of an iron-and-glass balcony door that had been shut when Draco had initially retired to his rooms. Heedless of his state of nudity, he stood carefully and moved towards the window, arm outstretched for the wayward curtain long before he was within reach. 

As he reached the doorway, a shape seemed to materialize on the balcony, and Draco’s stomach clenched in both fear and a certain, sick anticipation. 

_His_ face. There could be no doubt.

“Malfoy,” said the voice, and it was not that of a ghoul or some other bodysnatcher; not the reedy imprint of a ghost. It was solid and could belong to none other.

“Potter,” Draco choked out, holding on to the balcony door, half in order to throw it shut, half to hold himself up.

Potter’s face lit with a familiar idiotic Gryffindor grin, though there was something just that side of wrong with the cant of his eyes, the shape of his mouth. He was dressed in clothes far more suitable than those he had ever been known to wear-- dark trousers, tailored shirt, even his hair was in such an artful state of disarray, it was almost more attractive than tragic.

“Just the way I always Iiked you best. Starkers and too gobsmacked to mouth off.” 

“No,” said Draco, shaking his head as though he could make Potter disappear with the mere force of his denial. “No, you’re dead. _He_ died. I don’t know what the hell you are, but he’s gone.”

The thing that looked so much like Potter took a half-step forward. 

“Malfoy.” His gaze seemed to bore right into Draco. “Draco. It’s me. I’m right here. Let me in and I’ll explain.”

“I saw you die!” Draco snarled. “Standing there playing the hero, Dark Lord dead at your feet when those _things_ showed up.” There had been bloodshed, and screaming; claws and teeth everywhere and the sounds of curses and destruction all over again. And then it had been silent and all that had been left was a final wave of lamentation over the newly fallen-- Potter among them.

Draco was sure of himself, sure he knew the facts; had lived through them, and yet inexplicably, he was slowly releasing his grip on the door and moving ever so slightly toward the marble-tiled balcony. 

“Not at all,” said the Potter thing. He held a hand out to Draco, brow softening, eyes brightly glittering with the intensity of his plea. “Please. Let me explain.”

Somehow, Draco managed to fling the door shut such that the glass rattled in its frame, falling backward onto his arse in the process. 

“No.” He said once again, his head beginning to clear. “You’re not him.”

The Potter thing tilted his head in what appeared to be genuine regret and placed a hand on the glass. 

“I can assure you,” he said quietly. “I am.”

And then he was gone, and Draco was shaking violently, and a very concerned Mipsy the house elf was standing there wringing its tea towel and inquiring over Master Draco’s health.

Draco swore it to secrecy and crawled into bed, but sleep did not return.

* * *

Days passed. Draco’s bony wife planned social events and took tea with his mother, and entered his bedroom every night just after he did, and exited just after he came. Draco sat in the study and brooded under the pretense of running the family estate and pondering a career that would further the family’s recovery, but all he could do was think about the thing that might have been Potter, still trying to convince himself it had all been a dream.

The diminutive house elf appeared and let Draco know that the Notts had arrived for tea, and Draco realized that he hadn’t shifted in well over an hour.

* * *

Another week passed. Draco had slept free of Astoria’s tender mercies for two nights running, ever since she had informed him that she was at last with child. Draco was pleased, of course, if lacking a sexual outlet, but he had never had more than a cursory interest in her genitalia, and it wasn’t as though she had ever given him a proper blow job anyway. Thus he thanked her, kissed her cheek, and silently wished her well in her discreet search for a more attentive lover than he now that paternity could not be challenged, then locked his bedroom door securely behind her.

Draco was not sleeping, however, as the clock struck midnight. He stared aimlessly in the direction of the balcony door, sipped from his wineglass, and waited for the memories to blur together enough to achieve unconsciousness. 

This time he saw the door creep open.

His heart began to pound in his chest, battering his ribcage furiously even as it seemed to clamp down on his lungs. Absently, he set the wineglass on a nonexistent side table, and it tumbled unnoticed from his fingers onto the exquisite rug. Draco’s attention was focused on the gentle billow of the gauzy curtain and the shape on the balcony that coalesced into a Potter-shaped hole in the night sky.

“Malfoy,” said the shape, the consonants in the middle soft and sibilant and inviting.

Draco said nothing. Though he could scarcely breathe, he was already on his feet.

“Please?” 

Potter. The thing that might be Potter. He Who Could Not Be Trusted. 

“It’s you, isn’t it?” Draco found himself saying despite his best intentions, drifting ever closer.

“It is, I swear it.” There was a sound almost like a sigh of relief. ”May I come in?”

“Or your shell, at least.” Draco swallowed thickly. It wasn’t right. There were two options here-- either he had gone mad, or Potter had become something unspeakable. 

“Malfoy. You secretly envy housecats, you support the Arrows though your family owns a sizeable share of Puddlemere, you sleep with your mouth partially open and sigh at random intervals, you whine about absolutely everything--” Potter grinned impishly, and every time he did, it seemed less wrong. “I can’t bloody well stand you or your attitude, your friends or your family. And yet, you have the most insufferable, irresistible, post-coital smirk I have ever seen.”

Mouth dry, his fingers clenched and unclenched as he came within a meter of the doorway. Draco shook his head. 

“Why now?”

Hand to the back of his own neck, Potter looked away.

“I came as soon as I could.”

Anger and fear warred within him, “Where the hell have you been?” 

“I can exp--”

“Filthy half-blood orphan,” Draco spat, leaning forward so that his face was no more than an inch from the invisible barrier of the doorway. “Coward, glory hound, son of a bitch!”

Potter leaned forward until his gaze was level with Draco’s; body posture mirroring his, every word viciously enunciated.

“Spoiled, selfish, ignorant, useless, pointless Death Eater spawn.”

It happened before Draco could stop to think about it any further. All the warning klaxons in his head were dulled by the pull of Potter’s gaze and the proximity of what he had missed for too long. He reached for Potter’s open collar with both hands, lost in a fog of desire and longing, and was instantaneously rewarded by Potter’s too-familiar body pressed tightly to Draco’s own. 

Having guessed at the nature of Potter’s affliction, he hadn’t expected warm, vaguely dry lips; skin only slightly chilled as though having recently come in from a brisk evening walk. Still, all of these observations were academic; secondary to every other sensation that came along with sinking his fingers into Potter’s unruly mop of hair once again, tongue exploring the mouth he knew so well and so desperately needed. 

He registered the backward movement into the room utterly without alarm, and it seemed only a moment before the back of his knees hit the edge of the bed. In the space of a frantic heartbeat, Draco was on his back with an oddly flushed Potter over him, devouring the long, pale column of his throat. It took him a moment to register that there might be words in between Potter’s guttural sounds of approval; words that sounded suspiciously like both apology and appreciation. 

Draco loosed a desperate whine, born in his very core, and Potter paused in his path of destruction with what was clearly a heroic effort. 

It was then that Draco realized that Potter was not panting; not struggling for breath like he was. In fact, he wasn’t strictly breathing at all. Draco found that the revelation incidental. 

“I know what you are,” Draco breathed, even as he arched his hips into Potter’s, desperate for more contact.

“Do you?” Potter asked with a wolfish grin that didn’t quite touch his eyes. He aimed a nipping bite at Draco’s shoulder, too quick for pain. A thin rivulet of blood was all that belied its significance.

“And you let me in anyway? Dullard.” 

Briefly, Draco’s attention was too focused on the sight of his own blood. The smallest bit of his initial terror flared briefly, then died away. He met Potter’s eyes with some difficulty.

“Kill me or turn me, prat,” he snapped back, though his sarcasm was belied by the fingers he trailed back up the familiar planes of Potter’s bicep. “There’s nothing left for me here, thus nothing to lose.”

Potter eyed him hungrily, and Draco found he was telling the absolute truth for once in his life. 

“I don’t know that I could put up with your ferrety arse for an eternity,” Potter growled.

Draco had miscalculated, then. Still, he didn’t give a damn. Potter shoved his head aside and licked a trail up the side of his neck, ending with his ear. Draco could feel another nick from the razor-sharp fangs that were going to end his misery, and all he could do was shut his eyes and grind his hips up viciously into Potter’s. 

Potter’s voice was still low and hoarse when he whispered into his ear, lapping at Draco’s oozing lifeblood between words.

“I suppose we’re going to find out.”

Draco’s eyes went wide with recognition in the moment, just as his world exploded into a bright supernova of heat and pain. His hands fisted Potter’s shirt blindly, survival instincts leading him to try and shove Potter away, but he was immovable; inexorable in his quest to draw Draco over the edge. His vision began to fade to black, and he croaked out, “Too much, too much.” 

Potter reentered his field of vision, lips smeared crimson and eyes too bright. An animal in the midst of a kill. 

He uttered a one-word response before his mouth crashed down onto Draco’s to complete the process, and Draco accepted it all back eagerly, having glimpsed the future before them.

_“Never.”_


End file.
